Taylor Made
by Nikki-9-Doors
Summary: Your family used to joke that she was "Taylor made" - tailor made, for you...Oneshot. Mac's POV. After losing Claire, how will Mac ever be able to move on with his life?


_~~~ So, here's hoping this isn't totally depressing and repetitive. If you like it, please review - the CSI:NY fics are always the hardest to write._

_(I haven't seen any season one CSI:NY episodes, which may have mentioned the details of Claire's death and Mac's dealing with it a little more. Sorry if I contradict the show in some way, and please let me know if I do.)_

_Enjoyyy! ~~~ _

* * *

You and Stella are in New Jersey because two teens stumbled into an old, abandoned school building and found a body connected to a case you're already working.

She's taking crime scene photos and you're collecting evidence - sweeping for fingerprints, bagging the possible murder weapon - when your phone rings.

"Taylor." You answer, like you so-often do.

"Mac, you aren't going to believe what's going on -"

"Don? Calm down." Flack's voice is frenzied and full of concern. Not his usual self.

"No listen Mac, a plane's just crashed in to the World Trade Centre -" your whole body freezes, "- the whole city's up in smoke. Mac? Mac, are you there?"

By this time you've caught Stella's attention: "What's going on, Mac?"

"Don." You speak slowly, your words dropping out like heavy stones hitting water. "Are. You. Sure?"

"It's all over the news, Mac, you can't miss it. Fire department and emergency forces have already been sent over. Listen, I don't think you and Stel should trying coming back to New York. It's crazy. Get -"

"Claire's working today." You didn't think your voice would be able to crawl out of your mouth, but it does. You can feel your heart beating faster. You have never been so afraid, not even when you were in the Marines.

"Dammit!" Flack exclaims without missing a beat, and you can hear a muffled thud, as though he's punched a nearby wall. "I thought she was sick, Mac?" His tone is pleading. He doesn't want her to be there any more than you do.

"She was feeling better this morning." You reply, and now Stella's phone is ringing too - it's someone she knows, because she keeps saying, "Calm down, calm down, I'm not even there, I'm ok..."

"I have to get back into the city, Don."

"No, no, Mac, people are - they're looking - I'm sure she - Mac, just -"

You hang up on him. Look over at Stella, who has gotten off her phone. Her eyes are full of sympathy. She knows that Claire went to work this morning - you'd been telling a story about her on the drive to the crime scene, about how, with a runny nose and sore throat, she declared she felt better than she had her entire life and was perfectly fit to go in. You'd laughed because you knew there was no way you could convince her otherwise, and you drove her there.

You kick yourself now for letting her go. She should have stayed in bed, leafing through trashy magazines with the TV on mute, sipping chicken noodle soup from a mug. She shouldn't have been in the building.

"Mac," Stella's voice runs over you like melted butter, warm and thick, "I'm sure she's ok. She's a smart woman. She'll have gotten herself out."

"I have to get back to New York, Stella." You are grim and determined - in denial. _This isn't happening, this isn't happening._

But it's happened.

And when you eventually get home that night, you're on your own.

There had been no tearful reunion. No heroic rescue. There had been calling her cell phone, calling her work phone, even though you knew it was useless. Calling her parents. Calling your sister-in-law. Driving from hospital to hospital and - when the roads had become too bad to do that - running, looking, searching, inquiring. Desperate.

Nothing.

You don't sleep that night. You watch the news. Endless footage of destruction and dust fill the screen. The same story over and over and over. You hope so hard for Claire to be ok, for Claire to come home. You plan everything you'll do when she returns. Take her to her favourite restaurant. Buy her the prettiest bunch of flowers. Go on a month-long vacation to wherever she wants, just the two of you, a second honeymoon. _Please, Claire, please. Please, God, please. _

Then the lists.

You search them in futile.

You looked for her name, and don't find it.

Next the bodies.

You make yourself check those too.

Only, you get the same result.

You never find it.

_They_ never find it.

And so the days wear on.

[XYZ]

There is a postage stamp of grief stuck right between your ribs.

It sounds strange, but that's what it feels like.

Insurmountable, insufferable grief.

Sadness like an ache in the shoulders.

Sinking into the couch wrapped in an old quilt and not wanting to get up because it was warm and safe and the rest of the world is volatile.

There is no certainty. You don't know what to do anymore. A desired action, a need to share, can no longer be fulfilled. You can't go to your wife and tell her about a case that's bothering you or a miraculous break. You can't take her out for dinner with the team. You can't -

You can't even tell people you have a wife anymore.

A chunk of your chest has been ripped away, flesh and muscle discarded, bone stolen. It hurts in an odd, numb, solid way.

Dragging your body around is an intense effort and then there are the tears which will never cease because the whole world has changed.

But humans are adaptable.

So you do the very last thing you want to.

You live.

There is no one who can help, or explain, or sooth your harsh head and sorrow mouth. The sun rises, it glitters, it stands in the middle of the big blue sky and yells out that life goes on.

But you are molested by cloud.

[XYZ]

Stella rings your doorbell on the second week but you don't come out.

Not until the third week.

Everyone in the lab is quiet around you. Watching. Not sure what to say.

Danny and Flack give gruff condolences.

Stella gives you a hug.

"She could still be out there, Mac."

You shake your head.

You can feel it, after all.

She's gone.

There is no sleeping at night because the bed is too empty without her. You'd rather be working. Thinking. Thinking means you are active. Alive. Thinking about a case means you could solve murders, give peace to families. It also means you didn't have to think about Claire. About the peace that will never come for you.

And not sleeping keeps away the nightmares.

Of course, at the same time -

It also keeps away the dreams.

[XYZ]

Since you've fired Aidan, you have to find a replacement.

You find Lindsay Monroe.

You're going to hire her anyway - she's competent, she's motivated - and then you meet her in person.

She looks like Claire.

The same build. The same hair. The same big eyes.

You look at Lindsay Monroe as an instant _could have been_.

She could have been your daughter.

Yours and Claire's daughter.

You never had a child.

You regret that so much now.

So you have to hire her. You have to keep her within your sight, your reach. She's a reminder. A connection. _Claire._

And when Reed shows up, thinking Stella is Claire, looking for his now-deceased mother, you can't just let him walk away from you, never to be heard from again.

He's a connection too.

He's her flesh and blood.

And he does look like her.

Not like Lindsay does - not in words. _Same hair, same build, same eyes_. No, there's something about him that reminds you of her.

The same...

_Something._

And it's enough to keep you going. It's enough to keep you breathing. It's enough.

It's just what you needed.

[XYZ]

When Angell dies you can see Flack's pain, but it doesn't mirror you own. Flack's pain is obvious. Angry, remorseful, upset, vengeful. Seeing it makes it conquerable.

But no one can see your grief. You've tucked yours away, out of sight, lived on what little you have - Lindsay. Reed. The reminders.

You can still feel it though, that postage stamp between your ribs.

_Your grief isn't conquerable._

It'll never go away.

It's the reason why things with Peyton came to an end. It's the reason why things with Stella could never even start.

Your family used to joke Claire was "Taylor made"; tailor made. Perfect for you.

"No one else could put up with you like she does. She's a keeper." Your father told you when you mulled over whether or not to propose.

He was right, of course - your father was rarely ever wrong.

So you proposed. And you could never ask for anyone better. You can't remember getting into a single fight - at least, not a real one. She was always there for you, she put up with the Marines and she put up with the crime scene investigating. Demanding jobs. They took a lot of your time. She didn't care. She loved you. She was, absolutely, tailor made for you.

There's no way you could ever put her behind you.

There's really no way you could ever move on.

Because the truth is - you don't want to.

You're still in love with her.

Often when you're awake, deep into the night, not even bothering to try and go to sleep, your mind will stray from the case your working on. Or sometimes you won't be working on a case and your mind strays from the TV show you're supposed to be watching instead.

You think, They never found her body. She could still be alive.

It's just the littlest chance. But maybe she lost her memory. Maybe she's out there somewhere, alive, healthy, happy, a Jane Doe, a Sarah Smith. Or maybe she walked away from the rubble, memory in tack, and took it as an opportunity to walk away from you. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that maybe she's alive and well.

You'd prefer that.

You'd prefer that over her being dead.

You love her that much.

[XYZ]

You've stopped looking at Lindsay as a "could have been" now that you've gotten to know her better, but sometimes the thought still springs up, as it does when she announces that she's pregnant: _could have been._

You could have been a grandparent.

You could have been planning your daughter's wedding.

You could have been picking out your grandchild's name and you could have been crib shopping with your grandchild's father.

Could have been.

But that's all any of it will ever be.

A could have been.

You'll never know, now.

You'll never have that chance.

[XYZ]

You're standing over Claire's bodiless grave, Reed beside you. It's been eight years today.

"I just wish I could have known her," Reed murmurs.

Something about that sentence rings out - _could have_.

Reed never even knew Claire. Never knew the amazing woman she was. Never knew his biological mother.

You did.

That's one "could have been" that's actually a "was".

She was your wife. She was yours.

And all those other "could have been"-s; you did get to experience them, in a way. You did get to go crib shopping with Danny. You did get to help pick out a name. You did get to be one of the only guests at the impromptu wedding.

And now you're a godfather.

That's almost like grandfather.

They even sound alike.

This realization is just another vice, another thing to keep you going, keep you breathing. It's really, truly, nearly enough to allow you to live a happy life.

And then another realization comes - you _are_ living a happy life.

You clear your throat and say, "Well, Reed, she was a remarkable woman." Blink back a few tears and watch him do the same. "C'mon," you say, "I'll buy you some coffee."

The two of you walk out of the quiet cemetery and re-enter the noisy, boisterous, crazy world.

The postage stamp of grief is still between your ribs.

But maybe if you let yourself, maybe if you wanted to, you could mail it away.


End file.
